


... what I love best

by aquandrian



Category: Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-11
Updated: 2007-03-11
Packaged: 2018-04-28 22:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5108093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquandrian/pseuds/aquandrian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... just something I thought of today when humming along to a certain line.</p><p>Originally posted at http://operagasm.livejournal.com/256625.html</p>
            </blockquote>





	... what I love best

_... what I love best, Lotte said, is when I'm asleep in my bed and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head ... and he'll always be there, singing songs in my head._

 

There was once a strange tale.

Of the Vicomtesse de Chagny who was a beautiful blushing June bride but strangely paled after the wedding, fading ever thinner around her swelling belly. She gave birth to a little boy in the dead of winter, as much huge dark eyes and white skin as she. She stopped talking, no one ever saw her eat. Rumours spread of how she would wander moonlit halls, sleepless and staring, hollow cheeked and allowing none but her hands to touch her son. During the day, she would sit in the shade of a deep rose garden, hand on the cradle, watching the plants awaken and die as the months changed. No one ever knew what she thought or saw, if she was lucid or hallucinated.

There were murmurs of abuse, of violence, of mental illness but nothing was ever proved. The Vicomte despaired, they said. Brought in physicians from all over the city, the country, across the Channel. She would speak to none, merely walked the rooms and galleries in her tattering white gown, with the dark eyed babe at her breast. The child never cried.

And then one summer day there was a terrible accident. A visiting circus was parading through the city. Amid tumbling acrobats and frolicking clowns, tall thin men on stilts and dancing dogs, they say the Vicomtesse de Chagny took up her son from his carriage, put him against her shoulder and walked calmly into the whirl of colour and cacophony.

The Vicomte went insane. They say he rushed headlong after her, and the circus that had let her enter without question closed in on him. He was found long after the parade passed, bloody and weeping in the gutter. He never walked again.

Much much later in a different part of the world, there are whispers of a ghost lady and her dark eyed companion. She who speaks not a word but sings each night in a cheap little tent on some barren field in the moonlight, sings in a voice of unearthly beauty while the boy, tall and straight backed, plays music of exquisite darkness.

No one ever knows where to find them.


End file.
